


In the Sweet Summertime

by Magnetism_bind



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance and D'Artagnan's first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Sweet Summertime

**Author's Note:**

> Written to celebrate the anniversary of The Three Musketeers first being serialized/published. 
> 
> For the prompt: D’Artagnan & Constance's first time doing the do?

After that first fever of kisses Constance had abruptly pushed him back. “I, he’ll be home soon.” She didn’t have to say more than that.

D’Artagnan nodded. “We,” He couldn’t talk, lightheaded from the touch of her mouth, dizzy with happiness. If he started again now he’d never stop telling her how much he loved her.

Constance steadied herself, smoothing her skirt. The heat wouldn’t leave her cheeks. “We have to be sensible about this.” It was the reasonable thing to say when it was the furthest thing from her mind. She wanted to wrap her arms around him again. Instead she reached for a cloth and started brushing at the table just to have something to do with her hands.

D’Artagnan reached for her hand. “Go on a picnic with me, Constance.”

“What?” She stared at him. It’s hardly what she expected.

“Tomorrow. Please.” D’Artagnan kissed her fingertips, delighting in the exquisite feel of her hand in his. “Please.”

“You’re mad.” She declared, but she couldn’t resist his smile. “Very well then. Tomorrow.” Tomorrow her husband has a meeting with a cloth merchant. He won’t notice her absence.

“I will count the hours till then.” And then he couldn’t resist kissing her again simply because he could.

* * *

“What’s got you so happy?” Aramis inquired as D’Artagnan blithely went about his training that evening. “You’re smiling.”

“Why do I need a reason to be smiling?” D’Artagnan countered. “Perhaps I’m just happy.”

Aramis met Porthos’s eyes as they both made the same expression. “Because you usually have a reason.”

“Let me guess.” Porthos leaned on his sword. “A woman.”

“Let me put a name to the woman,” Aramis added. “The lovely Madame Bonacieux.”

“And if she were the cause of my happiness?” D’Artagnan kept his words light, as though the answer hardly mattered. 

Aramis shrugged. “There is only cause for joy there as far as I can tell.” He saluted D’Artagnan. “I wish the both of you much happiness.”

“Only take care.” Porthos admonished. “Her husband looks like the jealous type.”

D’Artagnan waved off his words. He was not concerned with Constance’s husband.

* * *

At noon the next day he was waiting when Constance appeared. They had arranged to meet a few streets away from the house. The neighbors had enough to speculate on as it was. Constance was determined not to give them any more.

“Did you actually pack a picnic?” She eyed the basket on his arm.

“I promised you one, didn’t I?” D’Artagnan offered her his arm. There was a shy look to her face as Constance took it and he wanted to kiss away her doubts. They walked, arm in arm, out of the city.

“Where are we going?” Constance asked curiously. She hadn’t been on a picnic since she was a little girl. It seemed so long ago now. She couldn't remember the last time she'd simply taken a day and spent it in the sun.

“It’s a surprise.”

There was a meadow to the west of Paris where the wheat was waist high and golden in the summer sun. A tall walnut tree provided shade on the far side of the field. Laborers took their midday meals there usually but today it was deserted.

Here was where D’Artagnan took her.

He set the basket down and spread the blanket he had borrowed from Aramis’s quarters (it was the cleanest) upon the ground. “Here you are, my lady.”

“Hush.” Constance rolled her eyes at him. She looked out over the fields. The breeze ruffled through the wheat. “This is pleasant.”

D’Artagnan smiled at her as he unpacked the basket. It was simple fare. A loaf of fresh bread, hard creamy cheese, half a roast chicken and a small bundle of sweet red cherries. There was also a bottle of red wine that he had liberated from Athos’s private store.

“This is…” Constance shook her head. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” D’Artagnan murmured. It was nothing to what he would have liked to give her. He thought of how it could have been if he could show her his father’s farm, but he was a farmer no longer. This was his life now, and she was in it. For that D'Artagnan was thankful.

“Stop it.” Constance broke off a piece of bread and ate it, smiling at him. “Open the wine.”

D’Artagnan did.

They took their time with the meal, simply enjoying each other’s presence. As the afternoon passed though they both knew wasn’t the wine that made Constance’s breath catch in her breast, or D’Artagnan’s fingers brush across hers. 

When he finally reached for her hand to kiss her wrist, Constance leaned towards him. D’Artagnan kissed her there, and then leaned up to kiss her shoulder as well. Constance shivered in the shade of the walnut tree, though his lips were warm as the sun.

D’Artagnan pulled back. “If you-”

“Shut up and kiss me again.” Constance told him. If she had regrets they were not here with her now. Now she had him. Her hands didn’t tremble as she reached for him, kissing his chest.

D’Artagnan slid his hand up her thigh, pushing her skirt up. “Your skirts.” He laughed again, fingers tangled in her petticoat.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” She showed him how to draw up her petticoat. His hands slid up her thighs and she gasped a little as he touched her. And then it was D’Artagnan who was breathless, rising above her, and Constance’s arms wrapped around him as they moved together under the curve of the tree.

“I love you.” Constance told him, though she knew he already knew it, that he could tell it from the touch of her lips and way she clung to him even now.

D’Artagnan rested his head against her forehead. “And I love you.”

Constance stroked his cheek. “I never thought-” She had never imagined it could be like this.

She kissed him again, lips sweet with wine and happiness.

* * *

Later they would walk back to Paris as the afternoon slowly met the evening. D’Artagnan would have to explain to Aramis why his blanket smelled like wheat and sun and wine. He would have no excuse when Athos inquired where his wine had gone. “You might have simply asked.” Athos would sigh, and D’Artagnan would remember that for next time.

But for now, they simply lay in each other’s arms, content to be together in the drowsy heat of a summer afternoon.


End file.
